


too young to fall asleep

by ripplingtale



Category: Witch's Heart (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slight Wilardo/Claire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23835697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ripplingtale/pseuds/ripplingtale
Summary: There are so much things worth forgetting.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	too young to fall asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Witch's Heart belongs to IZ (BLUE STAR Entertainment) and I, as a writer, didn't take any material profits from the content here. Title is from Head Above Water sung by Avril Lavigne ft. We The Kings. This piece is inspired from an art by omuri_cheesu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/omuri_cheesu/status/1243457741873528834), where Wilardo and smol Wilardo sitting next to each other.

He must be dreaming.

Otherwise, the pitter-patter of the rain wouldn’t sound so loud, so cold, _so comforting_. It had never rained ever since Wilardo was trapped in the Witch’s mansion with the others, and even if it did, he didn’t think he would hear the drizzle beneath the groans of monsters lurking around the hallway and the bitter impatience pressed against his nape.

The sight before him was almost familiar, in a sense he might have seen it once or twice in his restless life; a quiet, small village. Houses lined the street, made mostly of woods and stones, no bigger than a humble home for three. Rain pounded against the path, flowers bloomed on the places where footsteps couldn’t reach. There was no one else but himself, standing underneath the safety of a tree across a rundown house missing the door.

He must be dreaming.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t see himself huddling beneath slanted roof belonging to a house long abandoned. Wilardo was much smaller, much younger, much more _dead_ than he remembered he was; eyes empty, shoulders slouched, countenance gaunt and pale. He didn’t remember he was that small, that tiny, but then again, he didn’t remember he ever see himself in the mirror when he was little.

Wilardo took a step before he could think. The rain pierced against his skin, grazing his bones, all teeth and fangs over the storm. He stood right over the boy, bowing down after their gazes met. There was no recognition curling below those big, empty eyes. Really, he had never seen himself in the mirror when he was little, had he?

“Hey,” Wilardo said, simply because he had nothing to say. What to say to yourself from the past? It was a dream, yes, but he had an inkling of feeling that it might be not. After all, Wilardo had already seen a labyrinth of cookies and a mermaid writhing in pain over her falling scales. It shouldn’t startle him if the Witch’s mansion was capable to catapult him into the past.

The boy slowly blinked.

Wilardo almost knelt down when his movement halted over something in his pocket. Without remarks, he reached for the foreign item, dreading the cold metal of gun tucked in his clothes somewhere. Would his dream replicate his reality down to his weapon? It wouldn’t be ethical to pull out a gun in front of a child, was it? Even if the child was himself at the end of the day. Even if the child would grasp the same weapon, too, after all these times. Even if Wilardo knew the child wouldn’t even flinch should he put the muzzle on his head.

However, what touched Wilardo’s palm wasn’t the rough handle he had come to be acquainted with. What touched his palm was something else; round and smooth at the edge, and when he pulled it out, an apple was cradled in his hand. He didn’t remember what would an apple do in his pocket. He didn’t remember anything else but his past.

The rain graciously filled the silence. Wilardo glanced at the gleam in the boy’s eyes.

“Here.” He offered the apple to the boy.

The boy carefully reached for the apple with two hands. His fingers were branches, merely bones, his palms ivory, his voice drowned by the drizzle. “… thank you,” the boy murmured, slowly nibbling on the apple, barely reacting when Wilardo sat distances away from his side.

“How old are you?” Wilardo didn’t remember. He had lived for so long, everything before _everything_ was a blur even in his clearest nightmares. How old was he when he picked the lily, again? Nineteen? Eighteen? Younger? He didn’t remember. He didn’t think it was important for him to remember. He was doomed to be alive forever, anyway. No one would live long enough with him to scold him over something he forgot.

How old was he, today? How many days would it take until the boy met Gramps? Until time stood still for him, until the skies bloomed grey? How old was the boy, today? Did Wilardo even meet someone this kind before he met Gramps? He didn’t remember. If he couldn’t remember, surely, this was a dream.

“I don’t remember.”

This child was Wilardo, indeed.

Wilardo leaned on the shattered wall behind him. Rain drenched his back, mist caressed his cheek. He gazed straight ahead, absentmindedly staring at bushes of forget-me-nots swaying beneath the downpour. “Where will you go now?” It came almost alike an irony. Where would he go? He could go anywhere, he should go anywhere, that thing about Wilardo would never change.

The apple was halfway eaten. “I don’t know.”

And Wilardo left it at that.

Water splashed on his countenance, clinging onto his hair. Still, he didn’t blink awake. Wilardo listened to the sound of the rain, the silent pitter-patter against molded cobblestones. Colors churned into black, white, a little bit grey. The rain started to sound like a breath, a sigh; the wind nuzzled his hair and sang. How old was he, today? Aah, he didn’t remember.

“Are those interesting?”

Wilardo blinked, but not roused. He glanced at his past self, who was staring intently at the space he was just staring at a moment ago; forget-me-nots, swaying underneath the downpour. The petals were a bright shade of blue, almost too bright, almost too vivid, almost out of place in a sense it was the only thing real enough to be touched. Wilardo gazed back at the flowers, his answer came quite muffled, “Hm, I suppose.”

The boy has not finished his apple, yet. “It’s just flowers.”

That was what Wilardo would have said, too, back when he was still _alive_. It was just flowers, and again he might have said it to Claire when she barged into his room with gleaming eyes, hungry for company, thirsty for conversation. What makes it so interesting? Perhaps, Wilardo did appreciate them. Or mayhaps, it was the only thing that remained still in this steadfast world; the only thing that remained familiar in his hands.

“Flowers are flowers,” Wilardo said, finally, unhelpfully.

But for some reason, the boy took the answer with a satisfied sigh. He finished his apple in one greedy gulp, wiping his fingers on the edge of his tattered and dirty jacket thereafter. After a beat of silence, while overlooking the forget-me-nots, he asked again, “Where will you go now?”

Wilardo paused.

It was his question. Yet, he found his head blank. Where would he go, now? In this dream, or after he was awake? He didn’t think he could go anywhere in this place, and he didn’t think he could go anywhere after he was awake either. Where would he go? He could go anywhere, he should go anywhere, that thing about Wilardo would never change. He was the only thing in this world that would never change. He already lived for so long to know.

After all, didn’t those doctors chase after him knowing he would never change?

The boy turned at him when Wilardo didn’t answer right away. His big eyes were still empty, but bright with curiosity. Was he even capable to stare at people with childlike wonder like that? Perhaps, the boy wasn’t him. Or mayhaps, he just didn’t remember how he was when he was still this little, this tiny, this _alive_.

Where would he go, now? He had nowhere to go, although he could go anywhere.

“I’ll be coming back,” Wilardo said, soft and tender, just above the whispers of the rain. Where would he go? Nowhere, he would just come back. It might be the Witch’s mansion, it might be the motel he reserved in the town close to the Witch’s mansion, it might be the camp he set up far from the Witch’s mansion. He would just come back and trace his path.

There were stars in the boy’s eyes. “Take care.”

Wilardo blinked awake.

Night breeze caressed his eyelids, fireflies pressed against his skin. The sound of drizzle faded into a ticking clock, rippling water, hushing wind as it ruffled the trees, the bushes, the flowers. His back was against something hard and cold, the back of his head rested on something soft. Strands of blue hair dipped low into his sight, and when Wilardo tilted his head just slightly, he found Claire dozing off a breath away, bowing towards him as she slept.

He was lying on his back, on Claire’s lap, on the bench at the corner of the forest up the sunflower’s stalk. How he managed to end up like this, he didn’t remember.

But ah, it would be fine even if he didn’t remember, yes?

With a sigh, Wilardo said to the boy who was very much _alive_ , to the boy who he used to be. _Take care_ , he said, there would be so much you would come to hate, and there would be a handful of things you would come to cherish for a while.

“You too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> I haven't play Sirius' Conclusion, and it's been a while since I play Bonus Stage, so my Wilardo might be off. I love the idea of Wilardo meeting the smol Wilardo, and not knowing whether it was him. There might be an existential question around it, but I don't have enough characterization braincells to write it.
> 
> This is quite short, I know, but I sincerely hope it can ease your boredom in this hard time. Thank you as always, Frey, for proofreading and commenting on smol Wilardo. I love him too.
> 
> I hope I can write more for Witch's Heart in the future. Stay safe, everyone.


End file.
